


Je Me Souviens (Ik Herinner Me)

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: APH_Fluffathon, Gen, Historical, M/M, Romance, Tulip Festival, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six decades, seven colours, six times Netherlands gave Canada tulips. White, yellow, purple, pink, red, cream, orange. In the language of flowers, colour is meaning and each of these has a story to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je Me Souviens (Ik Herinner Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [APH_Fluffathon](http://aph-fluffathon.livejournal.com/). Prompt was for _'relationship developing from friends to something more, shown by the colours of the tulips Netherlands gives to Canada'_.
> 
> I hope I did it justice, and I tried to do as much research as I could to keep it historically accurate, at least in spirit if not in minute detail.

In 1945 the tulips came in a rainbow of colours, gifts of gratitude from the people of the Netherlands, who had nothing else to give, to the people of Canada who had saved them during the terrible last days of the second World War.

Canada himself, Matthew Williams, still weary and battle scarred and really just wanting to sleep for a month, noted the arrival of the tulip bulbs with bemusement, and for lack of anything else to do with them ordered them planted in the parks around Ottawa. They might as well be enjoyed.

As the wave of tulips from across the sea began to slow, a box arrived at Matthew's house, sent from The Hague and addressed in familiar if still slightly shaky handwriting.

 _Matthew,_ the note inside said, once it had been unwound from around the double handful of tulip bulbs packed carefully in cotton.

 _I can't ever thank you enough for all you've done for me. Not on a professional level as Nations, and not on a personal level as friends. My people were starving, my children dying, and you came for us. I know these are poor thanks for all of that, but I promise it's only the beginning. Please accept them in the meantime._

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be.

Matthew planted the tulips in the back garden, right where he could see them from his bedroom window as they began to grow, green tips poking through the dirt. Matthew could close his eyes and image how it looked in Europe, spring flowers beginning to grow through old ash, breaking down the decay of war.

When they bloomed, the tulips in his garden were white; pristine and unblemished and brand new. They reminded Matthew of the endless snowfields that covered his far northern boundaries, of his polar bear (whatsisname)'s fur.

 _It's like a sign,_ he wrote back to the Netherlands the morning the first tulip bloomed. He couldn't stop smiling. _White means surrender, but white means peace too, doesn't it? Like everything before has been erased._

He only had to wait two weeks for a reply, almost miraculous for a letter to get out of still-chaotic Europe and cross the Atlantic.

 _I pray every day,_ Netherlands wrote, _That you are right._

  
_~~White tulips symbolize newness, purity and heaven.~~_   


Years passed and the tulips kept coming; ten thousand bulbs annually from the Dutch royal family. Canada continued to plant them around Ottawa, but soon there were so many that he began to send them on to other cities as well, sharing the gift that had been given to all his people.

In 1953, his government had an idea.

"There are so many tulips around Ottawa now," the Prime Minister told Matthew, late one morning as they walked through a park on their lunch break. "We should organize some kind of official event so that people can enjoy them."

"People enjoy them anyway," Matthew said, watching several children running and laughing around a nearby flower bed, their mothers on a bench to one side. But the idea intrigued him in any case.

 _There's going to be a festival,_ he wrote to the Netherlands later that week, once the idea had been proposed to Parliament and enthusiastically supported. It would bring tourism to Ottawa too, boost the economy and help everyone.

 _In May, once the tulips start to bloom. We're planting the ones from your royal family, and buying more from anyone who can supply. Dutch companies, too. Are there any you'd recommend? Of course, you're invited to the festival too, but I know how busy you are._

It was a courtesy invitation only, one that Matthew expected to be smiled at and noted and then politely put aside. Work for one of their kind never stopped, especially not in Europe. He signed the letter with a flourish, tucked it into an envelope and sent it off to Rotterdam under the name Schyler de Vries. If Netherlands wasn't at his more private residence but rather at The Hague, his maids knew to forward the mail.

So months later during the first weekend of the festival, Matthew wasn't expecting a tap on his shoulder as he strolled down Wellington Street. He turned, ready with a smile and kind word for whoever it was that had stopped him, and was greeted instead with a faceful of flowers.

For a moment the bright yellow tulips were all he could see, soft fleshy petals nearly brushing his nose and chin, the crinkly plastic the stems were wrapped in scratching across the collar of his shirt.

"I-" he took a step back from the bouquet instinctively, bewildered at their presentation. "What?"

Then he looked up, into the amused grey-green eyes of the Nation he hadn't expected to see. Matthew must have looked like a country hick, gaping like a startled fish and completely speechless, but Netherlands, Skye de Vries, just smiled and pressed the flowers into Matthew's hands.

"They're for you. Will you show me around this festival of yours?"

  
_~~Yellow tulips can mean "there's sunshine in your smile", or more generically, "cheerful thoughts".~~_   


Matthew had fond memories of Princess (later Queen) Juliana from her time in Ottawa during the war.

Her homeland had been invaded, she and her daughters were refugees in a strange land, her husband and parents were still an ocean away and in danger in London, and yet she was still cheerful and kind, trying to make the very best of a terrible situation.

In January 1943, when it came time for Juliana to give birth to her third daughter, Matthew was there. He was there, in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room of Ottawa Civic Hospital, because Skye couldn't be. He was there because he felt it was the least he could do for the man, the Nation. He hadn't heard from Skye in almost three years, not since his letter asking Matthew to take care of Juliana and her children. Matthew didn't even know where he was, whether he was in London with his queen, still in Amsterdam fighting with the Dutch resistance, or in a camp somewhere.

And so Matthew sat, until Juliana called for him, exhausted but still beautiful. When he leaned over to pay his respects, she laid the baby girl into his arms.

"I pray someday she might see peace and freedom in our tulip fields again," she said, sounding wistful.

Matthew couldn't take his eyes off the sleeping infant, but he was thinking of Skye. "So do I."

The next morning, he walked to Parliament Hill, through the bustle and life of downtown Ottawa, the old architecture and the canal, and Hull just visible across the water.

He stood and tried to imagine if this was Europe, London or Paris or Warsaw or Amsterdam, if the sky was full of flames and smoke and his children were crying. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, opened them to see a second flag flying over Parliament. In addition to his maple leaf, the Dutch tricolour was flying to honour the princess' birth.

It flew against a clear blue sky with a few fluffy clouds, devoid of Luftwaffe and ash.

Matthew left the next day for Europe.

So in 1967 when Skye wrote to say that Queen Juliana would like to visit Ottawa for the Tulip Festival, Matthew was overjoyed for the chance to see her again. He was even more surprised and flattered when he read on, noted that Skye was planning to come with his queen on the trip.

Matthew met them at the airport, smiling bright and energetic, and Skye was reminded suddenly of how _young_ the North American Nation was. Young, and not still trying to recover from a war fought back and forth across his land.

Matthew offered to take them on a short tour of Ottawa before going to meet the Prime Minister for the official welcoming, and Juliana readily agreed. Skye noticed that his smile was mischievous, and wondered what he had planned.

He didn't have to wait long to find out, for straight away Matthew led the way to Ottawa Civic Hospital, where tulips were still planted every spring to honour the princess who had been born within those walls.

This year, all the beds were planted purple, the dark petals bowing in the wind like stately dark-haired ladies-in-waiting, paying respect to the queen of a foreign land by spreading their green leafy skirts in curtsy. Skye tore his eyes away from the flowers after a long minute, looking over at Juliana instead. The queen was speechless, one hand over her mouth and her eyes wide and a little tearful, but Skye knew her well enough to know that the tears were those of immense gratitude.

Skye felt a touch to his elbow, and looked down at Matthew's anxious face. "Is... is it alright?" he asked, quietly enough that Juliana wouldn't hear. "I wanted her visit to be special, so..."

For a moment, Skye couldn't speak either. Canada had saved him during the war, sheltered his monarchs and liberated his people when he himself had been powerless to do so, and still Matthew wanted to do more. Overwhelmed by gratitude of his own, Skye did the only thing he could think to, the only thing that might convey even a little of the depth of feeling he felt for Matthew in that moment.

Placing a hand gently on Matthew's shoulder, Skye leaned down to kiss him.

  
_~~Purple tulips stand for royalty.~~_   


"How many Nations have you slept with?"

The question seemed to come out of the blue, and Matthew nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk when it registered that Skye had really just asked him that. They were walking through a park that had been planted with hundreds of tulips, away from the chaos and bustle of the main roads. It was 1990, and Skye had arrived without notice, claiming he had to get away from the chaos of post-Soviet Europe before he lost either his mind or his temper.

" _What?!_ " Matthew was sure he must be as red as the maple leaf on his flag, but there wasn't much he could do about it besides bury his face in his hands, which he did. His next exclamation was therefore a bit muffled. "Why would you even ask that?!"

Skye gave him a bemused look, seemingly unconcerned by his near combustion but, truthfully, thinking that he was really rather adorable when he blushed. "I just wondered. Over in Europe, everyone has pretty much slept with everyone else at one time or another, but I thought it might be different since you're so isolated over here."

"God, you're _terrible_ ," Matthew muttered, still hiding behind his fingers. "Ugh. If you have to know, five. _Just_ five. And not all at once either. Al's right, Europeans are sick."

Skye just laughed. "I can't deny that. Five, huh? Let's see. America and France for sure. And England, I bet. Scotland?"

"Not Scotland," Matthew muttered, willing the sidewalk to open up and swallow him. He could not believe they were playing twenty questions with his sex life, which he was sure was as tame as a kitten compared to Skye's. Once upon a time the Netherlands had been the property of _Spain_ , after all, though Matthew had learned long ago never to bring that up in Skye's presence. "You won't guess the other two."

"Wanna bet?" Matthew could almost picture Netherlands' smirk, but knew if he looked he'd just go right back to blushing as hard as possible, so he just squeaked in answer. "Mexico? You guys share a continent."

Matthew nodded. "But I haven't slept with her. Al has, though I think they're fighting again at the moment."

Skye snickered. "Okay, not Mexico. One of your Provinces?"

Matthew resisted the urge to facepalm. "Ontario and British Columbia, and Quebec _once_ after we'd both had way too much poutine and way too many Molsons during the Stanley Cup finals. I wasn't counting them, though. You asked about _Nations_."

"So I did," Skye did not seem at all repentant about prying extra information out of him. Then he seemed to perk in interest. "Hey, have any of America's States-"

"I don't even _want_ to know what you're asking," Matthew groaned. "Montana and Alberta had a thing going for awhile, I've slept with New York, Al's doing good if he remembers I _have_ Provinces. Does that answer every potential question?"

Skye's eyebrows had slowly been creeping up. "...And I thought European politics were messed up. Aren't they all technically your children?"

"You did not just ask that," Matthew stated flatly, hands over his face again. "If I wish hard enough, you won't have just said that. _You did not just ask where the States and Provinces came from._ "

Skye was snickering openly, and Matthew almost wanted to hit him. But mercifully (sort of), Skye returned to the subject at hand. "Two other Nations?"

Matthew groaned, giving up. "Russia and Denmark."

Skye blinked at him. "Really? I always heard that you and Cuba..."

"Why do you think Al was so keen on buying Alaska? He was cockblocking. And I share a border with Denmark, technically, since Greenland is his, and I thought the whole viking thing was really sexy when I was younger. Cuba and I just hang out, I swear. Half the time he thinks I'm America anyway." Matthew finally lifted his head from his hands, eyes gleaming a bit. "...What about you?"

"Me?" Skye tried to look nonchalant, examining the bed of pink tulips quietly rustling in the wind before him. "I told you, over in Europe we've mostly all slept with each other."

"Anyone in particular?" Matthew pressed, actually curious now. "Anyone really memorable?"

Skye's eyes didn't move from the tulips. "England. Austria. Bel and I fool around now and then when we're bored. Japan." His expression darkened. "Spain."

Matthew resisted the urge to 'meep' and latched onto the much more interesting name in that list. "Japan? Really?"

Skye blinked and looked over at him, the dark look in his eyes clearing. "It was awhile ago, just after he came out of isolation."

"Still..." Matthew smiled. "Al's been trying to score with him ever since Final Fantasy VII came out."

Skye snorted a laugh, then leaned down to pick a tulip out of the flowerbed. He rolled his eyes at Matthew's involuntary noise of protest. "Relax. Technically the tulips came from me, right? So it's fine if I pick one." He took a step closer and reached up to tuck the flower into Matthew's hair. "...There."

Matthew was blushing so hard, he couldn't even find the words to protest.

  
_~~Pink tulips convey a message of affection and caring.~~_   


In late 2001, while Matthew was still slightly high from trying to smoke off an Alfred-induced headache, he got an email.

 _Have you started planning this spring's festival yet?_ it asked him, and it took Matthew a moment of blinking at the 'from' address before he realized what it was talking about and read on. _It's the 50th festival, right? Margriet asked me if it would be possible for us to attend. We have something for you._

Later, when he's not high, Matthew would reread the email like a rational human being and compose a well-thought out and structured reply. But at the moment, his breath caught at the thought that the _princess_ would honour them that way, and he typed back something totally incoherent and in French to boot.

Parliament and the PM were just as honoured as Matthew, and the preparations surrounding the Tulip Festival that year were more frenzied and zealous than usual. It seemed at times that every landscape designer in all of Ontario and most of Quebec had been recruited to help, every gardener and every florist. Everything must be as perfect as possible, because the princess of the Netherlands was coming back, for the first time since she was just a tiny baby.

Some of the nurses from the hospital were old enough to remember her; they'd been trainees and interns then, and now they were the venerable old grandmothers and supervisors. And Matthew remembered her too, remembered the hard plastic chairs and the very long night, remembered holding a newborn in his arms and watching her mother wish for peace, and making a silent vow to do all he could to bring that peace back to the world again.

He hadn't seen Margriet since then, though, not in person. But when she took Skye's offered hand and stepped out of the stately black car that had been sent to the airport to pick her up, it was all Matthew could do not to smooth his hair back nervously.

(It's nothing like her mother's visit, all those years ago. There hadn't been as much media then, no security besides Matthew and Skye and a few discreet men. Margriet has an _entourage_ , and a schedule set in stone, and paparazzi. Matthew misses, a little, the old days.)

But as soon as she saw him, Margriet's face broke into a wide grin. She stepped past Skye, and before Matthew could get over his shock this beautiful, regal woman had put her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. She knew exactly who he was; though whether because she just sensed it or because Skye had told her, Matthew would never know.

"Mother spoke often of you, Canada," she whispered just for him alone. "She told me how kind you were to her and my sisters, and me. She said you were there the night I was born, and left soon after to fight to free my homeland. I don't think we can ever thank you enough."

"N-non," Matthew stammered, slipping into French and then clearing his throat nervously. "I- thank you, but it was only a little-"

"A 'little' does not warrant tulips every year," she drew back and smiled at him, warm and gentle, and Matthew felt himself blush. Then she was swept away, by the Prime Minister and publicists, and Matthew didn't get a chance to talk with her again.

Instead, Skye stepped up beside him, slipping his hand into Matthew's. He blushed, but gave Skye's hand a little squeeze as they turned to leisurely follow the crowd of bustle surrounding the princess and the PM. Matthew had to giggle a little at that thought; it sounded like some vaguely obscene fairy tale.

A Dutch delegation had arrived the week before and politely asked for a section of Commissioners Park to be roped off so that they could install the monument that Princess Margriet would be unveiling. Matthew had heard about the statue, and knew that it was a replica of one standing in the Netherlands, but he hadn't yet seen it for himself.

He and Skye had no part in the official ceremony. They stood to one side and tried to stay out of the photographer's pictures and clapped when the statue was unveiled, but soon enough Skye put his hand on Matthew's elbow and the two of them drifted away from the crowds.

It was different for them. Humans were always putting up statues and monuments in symbolic memory of great triumphs and tragedies, but as Nations they _really remembered_. Matthew knew what it had been like, liberating holding camps and getting shot and spilling blood in what had been tulip fields, because he had been there. It didn't mean that the monument meant nothing to him; on the contrary he was very touched by the gift. But he didn't _need_ it the way humans did.

They were quite a distance from the crowds by then, both lost in their own thoughts and fingers still intertwined. Finally, Matthew looked up at Skye with a soft smile. "B-bedankt," he said uncertainly, and it at least startled a grin out of Skye. "I mean it. This... it means a lot to all of us."

Skye just shook his head. "I keep telling you, you don't need to thank _me_ for things I'm doing to repay _you_." Matthew started to stammer another flustered apology, but Skye just shook his head again, eyes twinkling a little. "...I have something else for you, Matt. Just from me. I arranged it while they were installing the statue. Close your eyes."

Matthew gave him a quizzical look but did as he said, obediently closing his eyes. Skye took hold of his shoulders, gently propelling him along a little further down the path, then turning him to face the right way. "Okay, open your eyes."

Matthew did. Filling his gaze was a truly enormous bed of tulips, planted all in red and cream, the two colours mixing and intertwining as the flowers rustled gently in the breeze. The creams looked so rich and silky, Matthew had taken a step forward to stroke their soft petals before he'd even quite realized it, and the reds were rich and bright and the exact colour of Canada's flag and Matthew's favourite hoodie. He stared at the flowers for a long minute, trying to divine whatever meaning Skye had surely put behind them.

He remembered, like the flash of a photographic lens, flying low over a field somewhere in Friesland, seeing _Thank You Canadians_ spelled in flowers that were blooming out of churned mud. But these flowers weren't spelling anything, and he returned to the present with a blink and a questioning look at Skye.

"You saved us," Skye murmured, wrapping an arm around Matthew and resting his chin on the younger Nation's head. "You saved _me_. And this all started as gratitude. But in fifty-five years, it's moved so far beyond that. There's other reasons to send people flowers besides gratitude, Matt."

And Matthew understood, then, what Skye was saying with the flowers, and blushed. But he smiled too, and slipped out from under Skye's embrace, but only so he could turn and kiss him properly.

  
_~~Red tulips are a declaration of love, while cream tulips mean "I will love you forever."~~_   


The knock on the door came just as Matthew was getting ready to go out.

He blinked, one hand on the doorknob already, then shrugged and opened the door. "Hello-"

"Hello yourself," Skye smiled easily at him over the cardboard box he was carrying.

Matthew blinked at him for a moment, mouth half open. "I thought we agreed to meet at the market...?" he floundered in confusion, and Skye's grin just widened.

"We did. But then I had a better idea. I noticed last time I was here that your back garden was looking a little bare and- well, it's not fair for _all_ the tulips to go to the public parks."

He held out the cardboard box, and Matthew's eyes widened a little as he peeked inside. Layers of raw cotton fluff, carefully cradling tulip bulbs just beginning to sprout met his eyes. He gasped, looking up at Skye. "Wait, this is..."

"A bitch to get through customs," Skye nodded as though that was what Matthew had meant to say all along. "I had to pull diplomatic rank at the airport. Didn't think you'd mind."

Matthew felt his cheeks going hot, and shook his head, thinking of his garden where after sixty-five years those snow white tulips were finally beginning to die out. "No, I- you're right. I do need more tulips in my garden. What colour are these?"

"Orange," Skye said, finally stepping inside and letting Matthew close the front door behind him. "Well, more of a orange-red sunset sort of colour. I saw them in a garden in Holland and the man who had them was kind enough to give me some bulbs. You'll see once they bloom, they're really lovely."

Matthew was still blushing, but he realized he didn't care. He lifted his face to smile up at Skye. "I can't wait."

They spent the afternoon in the back garden, Matthew in his oldest jeans and Skye with his trousers rolled up, on their knees side by side as they dug up old tulips and planted new ones, sneaking kisses in between.

They never did make it downtown to the festival.

  
_~~Orange tulips are for energy, enthusiasm, desire and passion.~~_   


**Author's Note:**

> The title means 'I remember' in both French and Dutch. In addition, 'Je Me Souviens' is also the motto of Quebec, and the French rendition of 'lest we forget' during Remembrance Day.
> 
> The human name I use for Netherlands, Schyler, means 'scholar'. According to sensus data, as of about 1947 De Vries was the second most common surname in the Netherlands and Belgium and indicates a family origin in the province of Friesland.
> 
> I chose for Netherlands to have a private residence in Rotterdam (rather than Amsterdam, though he's probably got one there too) because Rotterdam is the second largest city in the Netherlands and the largest port in Europe. Netherlands is such a shrewd tradesman, I'm sure he'd like to keep an eye on things, even (or maybe especially) in modern day.
> 
> When Queen Juliana lived in Ottawa (from 1940-1944), she was still only a princess. She ascended to the throne in 1948. Her third daughter, Margriet, was born in Ottawa Civic Hospital on 19 January 1943. To ensure that the princess would have _only_ Dutch citizenship (if she had dual Dutch-Canadian she wouldn't have been able to be in line for the throne under Dutch law) the Canadian government declared Juliana's maternity suite to be extraterritorial and therefore no longer Canadian land so Margriet could claim only her mother's Dutch heritage. The next day they flew the Dutch flag over Parliment, the only time in history a flag other than the Canadian one has been flown there.
> 
> In a further bit of floral symbolism, Margriet was named for the 'marguerite' flower, which was often worn in German-occupied Netherlands as a symbol of resistance to the Nazis.
> 
> During WWII the section of Hull near the river was still mostly residentials so it's debatable if you'd be able to see it across the river then but that's what artistic license is for.
> 
> The monument that Princess Margriet unveiled in 2002 is a statue called _The Man With Two Hats_. Its Dutch twin stands in Apeldoom, and symbolically links the nations of Canada and the Netherlands together.
> 
>  _Bedankt_ is a Dutch expression of gratitude.


End file.
